


Perfect Stranger

by EatYourSparkOut



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Flirting, First Dates, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Netflix and Chill, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: When the Scavengers arrive at Sanctuary Station, Soundwave develops more than a passing interest in their commander.
Relationships: Krok/Soundwave
Comments: 70
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try not to have too many projects going at once, but I'm losing all my self-control in isolation. May I offer you a small taste of a WIP in these trying times? XD
> 
> Mild canon divergence in that my early fanon experiences have made it difficult to not categorize Laserbeak as a ‘she’ and John Hasbro can't stop me.

Sanctuary station had new visitors.

That wasn’t remarkable in and of itself; the station saw dozens of travellers rotate through its airlocks each decacycle—some to trade, some to stay, and some merely passing through. That number had been on a steady incline ever since the station’s inception, and had showed no signs of slowing as more and more Cybertronians flocked to the tantalizing prospect of refuge—of a place where they could begin anew, free from the political machinations and turmoil gripping their planet. Sanctuary Station was a fresh start for them all. 

Neither was it unusual that Soundwave had taken an interest. Monitoring the flow of visitors through the station was one of his self-assigned duties. Years of intelligence had made it second nature for him to to keep tabs, lest he need to intervene. It’d also made it difficult for him to entrust the task to anyone else. He had a security team responsible for supervising the station, of course—which included managing the crowds—but the day Soundwave stopped personally overseeing surveillance was the day his spark guttered.

Sanctuary Station was open to all, and fully committed to its mandate of peace and equality. Soundwave himself was only in charge in the loosest sense of the word—preferring to act as a source of guidance, rather than deference. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a little discerning where his own interests were concerned. The station’s success was his top priority, and ‘servos-off’ had never been his style of management. 

A quote he’d heard on Earth manifested itself in vivid technicolour. 

_The more things change, the more they stay the same_. 

It was apt enough.

Soundwave wasn’t sure he knew _how_ to change. He didn’t know if such a thing was possible, after so long. 

It was good then, that he didn’t need to. As far as he was concerned, the only thing he _needed_ to do was ensure the safety and prosperity of everyone who’d vested their trust in him.

And so, he monitored. 

It wasn’t uncommon for him to flag the visitors he assessed as having _potential_. Whether that potential lent itself towards destruction or fortune didn’t matter; he was simply concerned with anyone with the capacity to enact change. After all, it was equally important to keep a close optic on those who would have a positive impact on their burgeoning community as it was to gauge potential threats. 

_These_ visitors had ticked all of Soundwave’s boxes. He hadn’t gotten close enough for a strong read, but even amidst the steady buzz of the docking bay they stood out—a colourful, shifting presence in the back of his mind. The unlikely group had arrived with such a clamour that they would’ve been impossible to miss, even for someone _not_ continually attuned to the ebb and flow of the station’s thoughts. 

A cantankerous pilot. A volatile medic. A K-Con who had somehow managed to not only survive the war, but relieve himself of his payload—beating the odds twice over. A jet who radiated so much chaotic potential that it made Soundwave itch. _Grimlock_. 

And keeping them all in line, their weary commander. A genericon who had stumbled into leadership in the absence of any organized hierarchy, and therefore wasn’t likely to be anyone of interest.

Or so Soundwave had thought. He was currently in the midst of reassessing that opinion. 

After all, the ‘Scavengers’—as the ragtag party had christened themselves—had had ample opportunity to disrupt the station since their arrival. Based on their dossiers alone, Soundwave had been expecting them to incite a riot within a cycle of their docking. But, apart from one, minor incident where Spinister had nearly decapitated the first Autobot they'd encountered, they had been shockingly well-behaved. 

Well- _contained_ was perhaps the better word. Because what had become clear—as Soundwave continued to watch and listen as he did best—was that Krok was _not_ the unassuming mech he appeared to be.

In fact, while it was likely that he’d never gained more than a modest rank during the war, Krok seemed to be, for all intents and purposes, a highly effective commander. More than that, it appeared that he was a _considerate_ one, and _that_ was what had really drawn Soundwave’s scrutiny. 

Serving at Megatron’s side, he’d seen his fair share of bullies climb the ladder. They’d been blunt tools, promoted in service to the Cause because their tactics were quick and brutal. Necessary weapons, disinclined to think for themselves as long as an outlet was provided for their anger, and too blinded by power to see how _easily_ that aggression could be manipulated to wage Megatron’s war. They’d produced wary, flinching subordinates—inheritors to that same impotent rage. 

Krok was none of those things. He had a cool authority about him, and his unit clearly respected his orders. But their obedience seemed rooted in genuine esteem. They flocked to him unconsciously, looking to him for protection and support. Amassing that kind of loyalty was no small feat, and it spoke to his competence. More than that, it spoke to relationships built on firm, mutual trust—something in short supply these days. 

Soundwave was, in a word, intrigued. 

He was maybe even impressed.

He’d never enjoyed the culture of violence and intimidation he’d been embroiled in as a ranking Decepticon. He’d tolerated it, as the distasteful but inevitable consequence of prioritizing one type of strength over others—a desire to emulate the casual might of their leader without consideration for the raw charisma with which he wielded it. 

Of course, Soundwave’s carefully crafted reputation and talent for handling others had kept him removed from most of those power struggles. It’d helped that he’d never possessed Starscream’s fatal ambition. He’d only ever had _vision_. A vision once shared, now his own. 

The reminder hurt. Dwelling on Megatron—about what had, and could have been—was like poking at a wound that had yet to close, ragged and weeping. He didn’t know why he did it. 

It was much better to focus on Krok. Not someone Soundwave would have usually taken notice of, he now had his full, undivided attention. As a group, the Scavengers put him on edge, but he could tolerate that and more for the chance to learn about their enigmatic commander. 

It was frustrating, trying to dig up information on the mech. ‘Krok’ was evidently a self-styled moniker, and one that hadn’t been updated in any Decepticon database Soundwave had access to. Which meant that the record didn’t exist, or was sufficiently obscured. He could put out feelers in the message boards, but at this point it would be easier to conduct reconnaissance in person.

Soundwave looked back to the monitor screen, which displayed Krok in the midst of helping Crankcase unfreeze something perilously close to a smile. 

Something stirred in his chassis.

“You like him,” said Laserbeak, from where she was perched on her usual chair. The cadence of her thoughts was bright and flitting, sunlight on running water. She approved.

She wasn’t entirely correct though. Soundwave liked the _idea_ of him. And he liked certain things about him—like the way he herded his mecha without them realizing it, and the warm servos he clapped on their shoulders. The lack of hesitation in his optics as he gave orders. 

“I don’t know him,” Soundwave said finally.

“You’d like to,” she said, and the teasing current licked at the edge of his processor. “You should go talk to him.” 

“Talk to who?” asked Rumble. He’d caught the tail end of their conversation as he strolled through the door. 

“Soundwave has a crush,” Laserbeak informed him slyly, and Rumble’s grin stretched wide—as it always did when he heard a particularly juicy piece of gossip. Soundwave caught the flash of eagerness, a coppery tang on the tip of his glossa, and knew then that he had lost. 

“Negative,” he said anyway. “Merely an interest.” The flag that delineated _potential_ lit up again. 

“I dunno, Boss. Sounds like a crush to me.” 

“I do not have a crush,” Soundwave maintained. “We have never interacted.”

“Weeell, why don’t you do somethin’ about that?” Rumble asked, in a tone that implied Soundwave would be a fool not to.

“It would be inappropriate,” he said.

Soundwave had been spying on the mech for the better part of a megacycle, something he’d discovered wasn’t conducive to _comfortable_ first meetings. Merely productive ones. 

“Aw, c’mon boss. You’re never gonna get any that way.”

Soundwave levelled a stare at him, loading it with the full weight of his disapproval. 

Rumble raised his servos, feigning innocence, and began to slowly back out of the room again; no doubt he intended to conspire with Frenzy, somewhere outside of Soundwave’s range.

“Just think about it!” he suggested brightly, before ducking quickly behind the door frame. 

Soundwave sighed. Rumble meant well, but his sense of foresight was limited; he lived in the moment, something that Soundwave, with all his plans and perceptions, had difficulty with. He had a commune to run. He would be better off keeping his distance, until the novelty—and temptation—faded. 

Because he knew very well _why_ his interest in Krok was so strong, and he didn’t have time for dalliances. Even if they would do wonders to ease the tension in his struts. 

“He’s right,” Laserbeak said. “You’re working hard to keep this place afloat, but it’s not going to sink if you take a few moments to yourself.” 

“I have responsibilities,” Soundwave said. He had been selfish enough the past few millennia, offering his unquestioning support to a Cause he knew had twisted beyond recognition—enamoured with a mech who no longer existed.

“It would be good for you,” Laserbeak insisted. “You’re too much in your own head.”

“I believe the problem is usually that I am too much in others’ heads,” he pointed out dryly. 

She snorted. “You know what I mean.” 

Soundwave could feel himself wavering. There was no guarantee that Krok would want anything to do with him, but surely a conversation couldn’t hurt? Then he might better assess whether he wished to pursue anything further. 

“Take a break,” she urged. “Have some fun.”

He looked to the screen again, where Krok had moved to humouring Grimlock and Misfire with a game of monkey in the middle—even though his short stature made it unlikely he’d manage to catch anything thrown or intercepted by the Dinobot. That low, warm feeling ignited in Soundwave’s core again. 

Maybe he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with the rarepairs!! Blessing or curse, who can say? We can thank http://shiptransformers.com/ for giving me a prompt to run wild with. 
> 
> If you've decided to join me on this tiny ship, I'd love to hear what you think down below~
> 
> If you want to witness me babble about this fic and others in realtime you can find me [on twitter](https://twitter.com/spidingsadly).


	2. Chapter 2

Soundwave strode towards the docking bay with a confidence that he didn’t feel. 

His spark spun uncertainly behind the glass of his chestplate, a flickering that was equal parts anticipation and alarm—anticipation that he might finally sate the buzzing need to Know that had crept up on him as he’d continued to watch the cameras; alarm at the impulsivity of his actions. 

Barely two hours had passed since Lasberbeak had nudged him along the path, and a half dozen strategies had been conceived and discarded in that time—leaving him with little more than her original suggestion: _talk to him_. 

Of course, a goal wasn’t a _plan_ —merely the culmination of all its parts. It wasn’t enough to proceed on, and this mission was far from his usual standards.

Yet his feet still carried him in the direction of the bay, channeling an immediacy he’d entertained but a few times since he’d first stumbled off the streets and into Ravage’s tutelage. 

It was an indication of how _long_ it’d been since someone had captured his interest like this for him to proceed with such a threadbare plan, and so little forethought. He could call it reconnaissance all he liked, but the truth of the matter was that he was woefully unprepared.

Worse, he was _nervous_. 

Soundwave knew the feeling well; the instability of his early functioning, followed by a lifetime as the Decepticons’ invisible right hand, had left him accustomed to the taste. He knew what it was like to be steeped in the cloying pitch—the acrid, sickly yellow that accompanied the cowards and unfortunates alike. 

But Soundwave didn’t _get_ nervous. Not anymore. 

Not for a long time. 

He wondered at its cause—if it didn’t stem from the fact that he knew _exactly_ what he wanted from the calmly assertive mech who’d appeared on his doorstep with little fanfare and a slew of happy subordinates trailing behind him. 

His proclivities weren’t something he preferred to dwell on; there were too many uncomfortable memories to reckon with, and that would be antithesis to the good time Laserbeak had prescribed him. But it would explain the onset of nerves. 

Soundwave hadn’t done this in... a long time. 

Whatever this was. A liaison? Surely not a seduction.

The newfound anxiety wasn’t enough to stay his course, however. He knew that Laserbeak was right; that continuing to dwell on video footage and half-formed fantasies would do nothing to scratch the itch. 

_Have some fun_ , she’d said. That was easier said than done, when you’d spent the last few million years consumed by a campaign that’d left little enough time for rest, let alone stress-relief. 

But he would try. 

He was _capable_ of it, surely. He could… socialize. Enough to make his interest clear, if nothing else. 

After all, Soundwave had shouldered the responsibility of wartime communications for the majority of his functioning. He’d advised and plotted from on high—devised schemes that’d turned the tides of galactic war. He’d converted data into _revolution_ , and altered the course of history itself—sometimes for better, more often for worse.

More recently, he had dedicated himself to propping up the remains of a long-corroded cause—a task that seemed impossible at times, despite his stringent belief. 

Compared to those things, what was a simple proposition?

And he wanted… 

Well, he wanted.

One thing was certain. Soundwave had very little to lose these days.

***

Years of practice had left him able to deal with crowds.

Unfortunately, his capacity to handle them had no bearing on his enjoyment. As Soundwave focused on blocking out the throng of unfiltered thoughts pushing in on him, he was careful not to brush up against anyone, lest the contact shatter his concentration entirely. 

It wasn’t a difficult task. Despite the bustle of the bay, the mecha parted easily before him, letting him go about his business. Sometimes recognition was its own reward.

The Scavengers were easy to pinpoint, even in the cacophony. Their thoughts were as eclectic as their personalities—a swathe of bright paint against the muted landscape. They floated on the periphery of his awareness, faint voices in the sea of noise. 

Soundwave picked up his pace. He was eager to learn the shape of Krok’s mind. For all that he’d been listening in on the station’s feeds, he’d yet to truly _hear_ the other mech. And their meeting would either confirm or deny what had been brewing in him these last few cycles. 

He maneuvered through the makeshift shelters—the temporary moorings of mecha who’d yet to decide if they’d stay—and pushed by the roving traders who proudly hawked their wares to the bustling crowd. Here and there, he caught glimpses of his security team, who greeted him with perfunctory nods. 

Had there been so many mecha last week? Soundwave had been following the reports, of course. He knew the numbers. But it seemed that with every passing day their little community grew. If even a tenth of these travellers opted to stay, they’d be seeing another housing expansion soon. 

What had seemed a distant dream just one stellar cycle ago was quickly becoming reality. 

Now, if only he could channel that success into the interpersonal challenge that loomed ahead. 

Soundwave had learned to trust his intuition over the years. Whatever was pulling him towards Krok was strong, and he had little doubt that the mech would be able to give him what he wanted. He had less faith in his ability to vocalize his interest. 

But there was no need to overcomplicate things. Soundwave would talk to him, and the rest of the pieces would fall into place. With a little luck their interests would overlap, and he would wake tomorrow feeling significantly unburdened.

The closer he got, the more the Scavengers’ presence grew to dominate his concentration. The swell of their collective personalities blocked out any competing distractions as all of his focus went to unknitting the jumbled mess of thoughts. He followed the threads to their individual centres, searching for one in particular. 

He brushed too closely against the wrong thread, and the frantic disarray of the mech’s mind was momentarily disorienting. Soundwave flinched, and pulled back before he found himself with a splitting headache. 

Definitely not.

But there. One of them was steadier than the others—a cool wash of solvent against his overtaxed processor—and at that first contact some of the tension left Soundwave’s struts. With relief, he followed the guiding point of Krok’s mind to the place that they’d docked. 

He stopped just short of the group, who were milling about outside the W.A.P.. Grimlock was missing, but Soundwave had it on good authority that he was engaged over at Antifreeze, assisting with clean up after last night’s incident. Evidently, the bar hadn’t been built with overcharged Dinobots in mind—or their tails.

None of them paid him any mind. It seemed that he’d arrived in the midst of an argument. 

Crankcase currently had his arms crossed. He was glaring at the jet whose thought processes had almost upended his mental footing a moment prior. Misfire. Yes… he remembered Misfire. 

“You _know_ what he’s like,” Crankcase was complaining to Krok. “By the time he’s washed off even half of the—the _stickiness_ , there won’t be any warm solvent left for the rest of us.” 

“Listen, I called _dibs_ ,” Misfire argued. “And if you don’t like it, I’ve got something that you can _stick_ right up your—”

 _”Hey,_ ” interrupted Krok, in a no-nonsense tone that wound itself around Soundwave’s core and squeezed. “Let’s keep it civil.” 

“He started it!” 

“And I’m finishing it. Settle down.” 

Krok had a good voice; it was suited to command. There was something in his bearing that was… highly appealing. And though he was in the midst of a lecture, there was a warmth to his optics that refused to abate. Soundwave’s interest ticked up a notch. 

Krok shook his head.

“Fulcrum goes first—he’s the quickest. Then Crankcase—”

“ _Seriousl—_ ”

“ _Then_ Crankcase—because he’s smaller. Then you, Misfire, because whatever it is you got into isn’t coming off without a little heat.” 

Soundwave received the mental image of a crust, built up over time. He shuddered. 

“Spinister doesn’t mind cold water—he’s last. And by tomorrow we’ll have two functioning washracks again, and it won’t be an issue,” finished Krok.

Misfire seemed ready to argue further—and by Krok’s look, he was already steeling himself for more diplomacy—but whatever it was that Misfire was about to say was promptly sidelined, as Spinister raised a hand to point at Soundwave.

“He’s looking at us funny.”

Five heads swiveled in Soundwave’s direction. He flushed, because of course _he_ was the he in question.

Ever grateful for his mask and visor, he met the accusing finger head on. 

“Apologies,” Soundwave said, directing his words at Krok. He defaulted to the pattern comfortable to him, his tone obscured by his modulator. “Scavengers: appeared busy.”

“He knows who we are!” crowed Misfire. “That’s _awesome_.” Then he paused, as if reconsidering Soundwave’s former position, and turned to Fulcrum for confirmation. “That’s awesome, right?”

“Wouldn’t count on it,” muttered Crankcase, from where he was tinkering with a piece of what Soundwave could only assume was the offending washrack. 

Misfire squinted at him. 

“Gotta be honest, mate—I thought you’d be taller.”

Fulcrum stepped on his foot, and Soundwave felt the pain bloom violet even before Misfire squawked. 

He wasn’t offended. It was hardly the first time his notoriety had eclipsed his stature. 

Krok laid a hand over Spinister’s, which hovered indecisively near his rifle.

“Hold on, buddy. He’s just here for a talk,” Krok assured him. He had yet to look away from Soundwave. “Right?”

It wasn’t wise to make such unfounded statements—especially where Soundwave was concerned—but he couldn’t fault Krok for it. His priorities clearly lay in his crew’s safety and comfort. And that his first instinct was to de-escalate, rather than posture, was refreshing. 

“Yes,” Soundwave confirmed. 

It didn’t do much to ease the tension floating in the air, but after a moment Spinister slowly took his hand from the rifle. He settled for levelling Soundwave with a hard stare. 

Not for the first time, Soundwave reconsidered the benefits of his illicitly earned reputation. What he wouldn’t give to be approaching them as an unfamiliar party, alone and unthreatening. But as usual, the tatters of his former station clung to him like a tired ghost. 

The Scavengers were distrustful, and they had good reason. 

Soundwave would simply have to set their minds at ease.

Krok straightened to his full height—just short of Soundwave’s collar faring—and crossed his arms. He carried himself with a confidence befitting a much larger mech, and there was a surety to his motions which professed experience. Soundwave found himself watching Krok’s fingers as they curled around his arm.

The silence dragged on, as Soundwave struggled to express his reason for coming here. For showing up unannounced to covertly gawk at their commander.

“So uh, what’d ya want then, Soundy?”

Fulcrum smacked Misfire in the shoulder. 

“You can’t just ask Soundwave what he _wants_ ,” he hissed under his breath. 

“What he means,” Krok said, with a warning glance at what threatened to morph into full-blown bickering again—“is what can we help you with?” A moment’s pause. “Sir.”

Soundwave grimaced under his mask. 

“Formalities: unnecessary”.

Krok’s optics narrowed a fraction. Soundwave could tell that he remained unconvinced. Old habits died hard, and adherence to the Decepticon rank and file had often been more about self-preservation—about expressions of power—than any real respect. 

“Hostilities: ceased,” Soundwave clarified. “Rank: meaningless.” He had no other way to impress upon Krok how little he wanted his deference. 

Krok looked at him a moment longer, the gears in his processor turning as he weighed the risk and reward of discarding old protocol. Finally, he nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Soundwave it is.” 

He liked the way that Krok said his name. The firm assurance of it. Like someone calling him back to shore. 

“So the war’s really over?” Misfire piped up. “ _Over_ -over? Because you know, ‘Cons are usually more about the _rising up_ than the _letting go_ Ask Wildrider—he’s still mad that I smoked him at online go-kart racing last week.”

“There are... rumours,” added Fulcrum, more carefully. 

Soundwave inclined his head. They weren’t entirely wrong to suspect him, or this sanctum. After all, there almost _had_ been another uprising. They’d simply missed it. 

“They’re asking if this is the real deal, or if you’re hiding Megatron in the back room,” grumbled Crankcase. 

Soundwave didn’t want to think about Megatron, galavanting aboard the Lost Light. He didn’t want to think about Galvatron, or Optimus, or any of the other forsaken leaders still hanging over him. He kept his attention on Krok as he answered. 

“Decepticon Cause: transformed,” he explained. “Goal: reclamation of original ideals. Equal opportunity for all.”

He didn’t need to explain himself, but with Krok’s steady gaze trained on him, Soundwave felt the need to impress upon him the sincerity of his new mandate.

“Station: offers new beginnings.”

He’d been adrift for so long; he knew that it would be all too easy to fall into orbit around another strong personality—to make someone new the centre of his entire focus. But that wasn’t a cycle that Soundwave wanted to perpetuate. He was remaking himself, and a large part of that meant learning to navigate the world anew. 

He would always have his anchors—like Cosmos, who had taught him that he could still do friendship, after so long—but never again would he let one mech dominate his existence to the extent that it had in the past. 

No, what he wanted from Krok was very different. 

And more immediate.

“That’s admirable of you,” Krok said. He was difficult to read, his thoughts painfully neutral. He was assessing Soundwave as much as Soundwave was him. 

“Query: How are you finding the station?”

Crankcase snorted. “What do _you_ care?”

It appeared that in courting Krok’s attention, he would also be enduring the cross-examination of his crew. He supposed he was lucky that he didn’t have to contend with Grimlock too, or stare into those teeth as he attempted to proposition their commander.

“Comfort of residents: paramount,” Soundwave explained. “Goal: peaceful integration”. 

“Have we been causing problems?” Krok asked. His voice was steady, but he’s drawn himself up—shoulders tense. Alarm threaded through his mind, sharp and razor-thin. The opposite of what Soundwave wanted. 

There was a steely edge to his optics, and Soundwave was caught for a moment, by the protective display, as well as the way that the others shuffled closer; in an instant, his fascination became something stronger—simmering low in his core.

“No,” he managed, aware that this could easily spiral into misunderstanding. 

“Look, is this about the bar? Because that was an accident, and Grimlock already apologized. He’s making up for it.”

“He only took out _half_ the counter,” Misfire interjected. “ _And_ everyone got to keep their legs. Plus, now they can remodel!”

“No,” Soundwave said again. This was getting out of hand. He was rapidly losing control of the conversation, and he was just as far from explaining what he wanted as he had been at the start. “Behaviour of crew: satisfactory. Soundwave: simply wanted to greet new arrivals. Ensure visitors’ satisfaction for the duration of stay.”

Krok relaxed a micrometre.

“Huh. Well, okay.” Krok said. “That’s… nice of you. We appreciate it.” After a moment’s consternation, he held out his hand. Not the most intimate gesture, but Soundwave wouldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

He grasped Krok’s hand in return, and a small thrill ran up his spinal strut. Krok’s grip was firm, but his mind was warm bismuth, melting on the tip of Soundwave’s tongue. He let the feeling wash over him, seeping into his struts, and easing the tension in his lower back. 

Krok shifted on one foot, and Soundwave realized that he’d held onto his hand for a little longer than was socially acceptable. He promptly released it. 

There was a moment of awkward silence. Conversation tended to dwindle around Soundwave, which was a boon when he needed to get things done. Less so when trying to convince another mech that his free time would be spent well in his company. 

“Scavengers: welcome to stay as long as they’d like,” Soundwave said, and hoped that no one noticed the embarrassed static interlacing his words.

Krok shook his head.

“We won’t be here long. We came in for repairs, and once we’ve finished those, and stocked up, we’ll be on our way.” 

Soundwave felt a pang of disappointment despite himself. It was simpler this way. Cleaner. It was a failsafe, should they be incompatible, or should Soundwave make a complete fool of himself—assuming that he hadn’t already.

He’d planned for a quick diversion; something that could be accomplished by simply acquiring Krok’s comm code and sending him an invitation to convene at his habsuite. But now he was beset by the urge to not just know more _about_ this mech, but to _know_ him. It wasn’t an urge he felt often.

So far, the image that he had crafted of the inscrutable commander was living up to expectations. The measured consideration with which he approached situations. The unhesitating defense of his unit. The capacity for generosity which underlay his every thought, even buried as it was by caution and concern for his crew.

It couldn't hurt for them to spend some time together first, to see if they were compatible. Too many times had Soundwave rushed into a choice of partner, only to be left disappointed. And this wasn’t the army, where he’d been compelled to hide most of his encounters—to wipe away the evidence of his life outside of command in order to preserve his stark image. 

Soundwave didn’t have much experience… dating. But, something about Krok compelled him to make the attempt. 

He floundered, aware that he was running out of excuses for his continued presence, and unwilling to miss his chance.

“Suggestion: allow Soundwave to give Krok a tour of the station.” As far as dates went, it was terrible, but he’d spoken on impulse, and even now he found it hard to shed the guise of professionalism that he’d arrived under. 

Krok’s confusion was back, twining around them like creeping vines. 

“That’s… really not necessary. Like I said, we won’t be hanging around long.”

“We’re wanderers,” Misfire said, nodding his head sagely. “Free spirits! We go where the dead bodies take us.”

“Sometimes they take us somewhere nice,” added Spinister helpfully.

“Krok: might think differently by the tour’s conclusion,” said Soundwave. “Sanctuary Station: has much to offer.”

“I’m sure it does,” Krok agreed. He tilted his helm slightly, as though observing Soundwave from another angle might serve to clarify his intentions. “This tour of yours, is it mandatory?”

“No,” Soundwave said. Too quickly, perhaps, because Crankcase looked up and squinted at him. 

“Krok’s company: not required. Requested.” 

A wide grin had begun to spread across Misfire’s face. It was a _knowing_ smile, and Soundwave very pointedly did not look his way. 

“Hey, loser,” he said, tugging on Fulcrum’s arm “Let’s go find Grimmy. He probably needs help un-stomping the place.”

Spinister looked at Soundwave. Then at Krok. Then back to Soundwave. He did this several times, before finally nodding and following after the others.

“Krok: will accompany Soundwave?”

“I… if it’s that important to you. Sure,” Krok said. He seemed confused by his crew’s rapid dispersal, though some of the tension had melted from his frame. 

“This is painful,” grumbled Crankcase. “Call me when you’ve figured it out.” And with that he gathered up his project and reboarded the ship, leaving them alone.

Soundwave shuffled in place, and ignored the laughter that trilled across his processor. He was glad that _Buzzsaw_ was finding some entertainment in this, at least. Briefly, he reconsidered just sending an invitation to Krok’s comm, once he was far from the bay.

“Soundwave: will meet Krok by observation deck #11, at 18:00 hours. Acceptable?”

That would give him some time to figure out how he wanted to proceed, or possibly, to uncommit himself from this foolish venture.

“Works for me,” Krok said. His optics had softened at the corners. Not quite a smile, but friendly enough that Soundwave could salvage a kernel of hope. This had been a partial success, but a success nonetheless. 

He inclined his head. 

“Soundwave: looks forward to it.”

The hustle and bustle of the bay felt less intrusive on the return. Soundwave kept his awareness half-attuned to the W.A.P. as he walked, muting his immediate surroundings, and replayed his interactions with Krok. He knew that he had been too obscure, tripped up by his discomfort. But Krok has said _yes_.

When Crankcase re-emerged from the ship, Soundwave couldn’t help but tune into the ensuing conversation.

“That was weird, right?”

An affirmative grunt. 

“Congrats on the date, I guess.”

“The _what_?” 

Soundwave walked a little faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundwave: terrible at asking people out. 
> 
> Krok: terrible at realizing he's being asked out.
> 
> Truly, a match made in heaven. 
> 
> As always, feedback appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grad school is kicking my ass, but I can have a little writing... as a treat :')

Soundwave stood at the edge of the observation deck and willed himself to relax. 

He’d been trying all morning to quell the nerves that swirled around his fuel pump like too much engex. They rattled around in his processor, upsetting his concentration, and allowing the doubts and misgivings of everyone around him to bleed through his defenses until it all merged into one, discordant tone. He’d been pretending to be absorbed in a security report for the better part of an hour now, with limited success. As he found himself reading the same line for the third time in a row, his thoughts turned again to his impending date. 

Whether or not the term was accurate was still up for debate. Was it really a date if only one party was aware? Was it a date if said party barely knew what a _date_ entailed? As a rule, Decepticon courtship involved more posturing and demonstrations of ability than formal outings. But Soundwave wasn’t aiming to negotiate a relationship. One night to unwind—that was all he needed, nothing more. Firm hands directing his frame. Commands murmured against his audial until he couldn’t think or feel anything beyond what was in front of him. A moment of peace.

Krok’s company was simply a... bonus. 

Yesterday had been an abject embarrassment. He’d fumbled in his eagerness, preoccupied by the shiny, new gleam of Krok’s mind. He was determined to make up for it today. Even if so far his plans had refused to coalesce beyond unhelpful fragments such as ‘impress Krok’, and ‘convince Krok that a liaison wouldn’t be hazardous to his health’—contrary to whatever rumours he might have heard.

He could handle this. He’d handled far worse. 

He could only hope that Krok had an interest in handling him.

Behind him, someone cleared their vocalizer, and Soundwave twitched, nearly dropping the datapad he held. 

It was a testament to his distraction that he hadn’t noticed the other mech strolling up to him on the platform. Now that he was aware, Krok’s mind shone like a beacon, cutting through the surrounding noise with the precision of a laser rifle. 

Krok: early,” Soundwave observed, and if he flushed at being so startled, his mask spared the tattered remnants of his reputation. 

“Hope that’s not a problem,” Krok said. He looked tired, optics a shade duller than they’d been yesterday. “If you’re busy, I can wander around for a bit. Things were just getting a little too _hectic_ back at the W.A.P. for me.” He huffed a small laugh. “Don’t pop by unless you feel like joining in on a port-wide game of Shoot Shoot Bang Bang”.

“...Acknowledged”. Soundwave didn’t need to know what that meant in order to make a note to corral Rumble and Frenzy to the _opposite_ side of the station today. He shook his head, subspacing the datapad. “Work: unimportant. Tour may commence.”

“Great.” Krok looked around at the observation deck they stood on. His optics fell on a group of mecha playing cards in the corner. “Still don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here, but I’m willing to go along for the day.” 

Krok was refreshingly blunt. Soundwave, who’d dealt in lifetimes of half-truths and hollow flattery, found himself appreciating it. Not to mention, that in admitting his ignorance Krok had given Soundwave the perfect opportunity to correct any misconceptions he may have formed about this meeting. Namely, that Soundwave’s interest lay in bolstering the station’s population, and not in the mech who stood unflinchingly before him. 

“Station: always seeking new residents. Scavengers: would benefit from occupancy”.

He was a coward.

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” said Krok. “Most mecha don't actually _want_ us to hang around that long, what with our track record, but—” he tapped thoughtfully at the railing. “I can't say I don’t appreciate the change of pace”. 

“Scavengers: often disruptive,” Soundwave agreed. 

He regretted it almost immediately as Krok turned to him with narrow optics. He hadn’t actually _meant_ that as an insult.

Soundwave held up his hands, thinking that under ordinary circumstances, it’d be almost laughable. The infamous communications officer, cowed before a mech who’d come into his rank nearly by accident. 

“Not a judgement,” he added. “An observation. Scavengers: also determined. Loyal.” He reached out, and touched Krok lightly in the centre of his badge. “Scavengers: survivors.”

Krok resettled, crossing his arms. His optics softened to something less harsh.

“Well, now you’re just buttering me up.” 

Deep inside his chassis, Soundwave’s fuel pump hammered out a quick staccato.

This would be fine.

***

Three quarters through the tour, and Soundwave was not fine.

 _Technically_ , it had all gone smoothly so far. All things considered, Krok had been exceedingly generous in humouring him. He nodded politely, sometimes approvingly, as they toured the various operations and amenities contained within the station’s walls. He asked questions where appropriate, and answered in turn when Soundwave inquired into what the Scavengers had been doing prior to their arrival. It was all very… courteous.

But it was going nowhere.

It wasn’t Krok’s fault that Soundwave hadn’t been forthright about his intentions, and had yet to steer the conversation elsewhere. Nor was it his fault that Soundwave didn’t know _how_. He’d yet to express his interest, let alone broach the idea of Krok accompanying him somewhere more private. It was little wonder that they’d failed to progress beyond polite civility.

He could claim miniscule victories. Krok hadn’t grown bored or offended by Soundwave’s often stilted conversation, and still seemed content to let him lead him around the station. Sometimes, he laughed at Soundwave’s dry observations, and Soundwave savoured the smoky warmth of his good humour. They’d drawn some curious looks as they progressed along the path he’d laid out, but no one had seen fit to bother them. 

Sanctuary Station seemed small against the planet it orbited—a dark speck against a wide, glowing expanse. It seemed smaller still against the cold void of space. On the inside, however, it quickly became clear that its construction had been a monumental effort. There’d been room enough to house all of the Cybertronians who’d come flocking at the start, and there was plenty of room left to grow. There were still kilometres of space sitting empty and unused, simply waiting to be converted into sleeping quarters or other necessities. But it didn’t stretch on _forever_ , and of that which had been developed, they had toured nearly all. 

Soundwave was running out of time, and he knew it.

He wished he’d asked Cosmos for help. But Cosmos was off on a mission from Prowl and had temporarily disabled his comms. He wished he’d just gone with his usual method—skipped the attempt to make Krok _like_ him, and simply sent a late-night message. That was a social transaction he had _experience_ with, at least. Simple. Impersonal.

The problem, of course, was that he didn’t _want_ impersonal—not anymore, and not from this mech.

Sighing internally, Soundwave resigned himself to languishing in silent torment for the rest of the spiralling non-date.

***

“Maybe this _is_ our kind of scene,” said Krok, as he watched the leading “racers” dodge paintballs from a whooping crowd. “Misfire would be all over this”.

“Races: frequent source of entertainment on station. Not… typical,” Soundwave answered. 

That was, of course, Rumble and Frenzy's fault—who had taken to hosting weekly competitions at the track with absurd, ever-changing rules. He had been unable to dissuade them from the endeavour, though not for lack of trying. The most he had accomplished so far was getting them to agree to the use of _non-lethal_ rounds. There’d been no casualties so far, which was likely the best he could hope for. 

He despaired to think what might happen should Misfire get involved.

“Aerial track: exists in the adjoining stadium,” he informed Krok, desperate to turn his mind to less disastrous speculation. “Krok: welcome to use either track when available.” 

“Oh,” Krok said, after a surprised pause. “Thanks. Won’t be much use to me, I’m afraid. I gave up my alt a while back.” He shook his head. “The crew’ll love it though. I know Spin has been going a little stir crazy. He’ll want to stretch his rotors.”

Soundwave tried not to let his embarrassment show in the set of his shoulders. Of all the faux pas, assigning a secondary mode to a _monoformer_ was one that he should have managed to avoid, after so long in Ravage’s company. He hadn’t had files on Krok, but now, looking at the compact planes of his form, it seemed obvious that the sparse kibble was aesthetic rather than functional. 

Ravage would have swatted him for the assumption. But he would have liked Krok, Soundwave thought. 

Megatron would have viewed him as a resounding success. Once.

 _Reject your alt mode. Resist the system_.

A light on the side of Krok’s helm blinked as his communicator went off. He grimaced a moment later. 

“Sorry, let me take this”.

As Krok stepped off to the side—“Spinisiter shot what?” A sigh. “You _know_ you can’t pop cadmium without warning him first”—Soundwave scanned the crowd. He pinpointed them a moment later— two loud, familiar presences camped out at the edge of the stands. Frenzy was currently standing on the bench, directing his contestants with the help of a megaphone. There was a half-empty bucket of copper shreddings at his feet, wedged between him and Rumble, who sat dangling a bottle of engex from his fingers. 

“Now drive backwards!” Frenzy shouted, as Rumble took a swig from the bottle and snickered. 

The bond between Soundwave and his cassettes wasn’t a _tangible_ thing. In the case of the twins—and Ratbat, though he didn’t want to dwell on that—the relationship had been born partially from military necessity. But years of working together had left them well-attuned to one another’s presences, and years of keeping the company of spies meant that the twins knew when they were being watched. Soundwave’s gaze had only lingered for a few seconds before Frenzy dropped the megaphone and turned his head in his direction. 

Their visors met. Frenzy’s glinted. He leaned down to say something to Rumble, who grinned. 

Soundwave barely bit back a groan as they both clambered off the stands and began to swagger over. Judging by the way Rumble leaned on Frenzy as they walked, the bottle wasn’t his first.

“Heya Boss,” said Rumble with a wide grin. Impishness radiated off of him in prickling waves. “Having a good time? You get your cables torqued yet?” 

“Rumble,” Soundwave warned. “Interference: unnecessary.”

“Yeah, yeah. And I’m the new Prime.”

Frenzy glanced over to where Krok had taken to leaning against the wall. He had a knuckle pressed to the space where mask met faceplate, and Soundwave found himself tracing the lines of his fingers. It was easy to imagine them thumbing at his ports, or running along his cables. They were of a size that they would find the gaps in his armour with ease.

“That the guy? Don’t look like much.”

Soundwave tore himself from his brief reverie, and turned back in time to watch Rumble elbow Frenzy. 

“You wanna help him get laid this cycle? We ain’t got time to go back to square one.”

“Interference _unwanted_ ,” Soundwave clarified, in case Rumble felt like listening to him for once in his functioning.

Rumble waved him off.

“Eh, you’ll thank me later”.

Soundwave very much doubted that. But Rumble didn’t wait for him to answer before sticking a hand out to the now approaching Krok.

“Name’s Rumble. Nice to meetcha”. He stuck his other thumb out to the side. “The cranky one’s my brother, Frenzy. Don’t let the ugly expression fool you; that’s just his face.”

Frenzy crossed his arms, shifting his frown from Krok to Rumble. 

“Shut up, idiot. It’s the same face.”

Krok was unfazed. He shook Rumble’s hand with the composure of someone who’d learned that sometimes it was just best to go along with it.

“Krok. Soundwave was just showing me around the station.” 

“Oh yeah? Show you anything _good_ yet? Or is he holding out?”

“Rumble,” Soundwave said, with increasingly strenuous patience. “Desist”. His brand of “help” was only liable to make things awkward. _More_ awkward.

“Er, I think we were going to the energon refinery next,” Krok offered. 

This earned a long groan, as well as a look to the ceiling. 

“Help me out here ‘bro.”

Frenzy traded in his hard stare for a small scoff.

“Yeah, forget that,” he said to Krok. “The boss is great at making decisions. Not so much at making connections, you feel?” 

Krok looked between them.

“I’m not sure that I do.” 

“That checks out.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Frenzy waved him off. 

“Look, don’t worry about it. They’re playing Planet Crushers 3: Maximum Destruction at the theatre later. You guys should go.”

Evidently, he had decided that Krok deserved, or more likely _needed_ , his help. 

Soundwave, meanwhile, had begun to contemplate establishing a new colony of one on the far side of Saturn.

“Lots of cool space battles,” said Rumble helpfully. “And there’s this one fight at the end with a huge asteroid monster where they— aw, c’mon, don’t look at me like that Boss. A little _action_ never hurt a mech.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen worse,” said Krok wryly. He shot an amused glance at Soundwave. “I’m usually outvoted at movie night.”

Sensing that the situation had spiralled out of his control, Soundwave cast about for a change of subject. Anything to remove the twins from the conversation before they could capsize this already sinking date. His optics settled on the track, and the racers who were having significantly more success completing laps without Frenzy’s nonsensical orders to follow. 

“Landslide: in first,” he informed Frenzy.

“ _What,_ no— I have twenty shanix on Influx!” He was already turning back to the track. “Shoulda known that fragger wouldn’t hold up his end of the deal.”

Rumble gave Soundwave a thumbs up as he was dragged away to spectate.

“You got this!” he shouted. 

Krok watched them go bemusedly. Soundwave watched Krok. He had been ceaselessly patient— _understanding_ —during the course of this excursion. Soundwave wondered if that consideration extended to the berth.

“Soundwave: apologizes,” he managed. “Rumble and Frenzy: mean well.”

“Don’t worry about it. Nothing I’m not used to.” 

Soundwave took a deep vent and reconsidered his options. Frenzy’s suggestion didn’t have _zero_ merit, but he imagined that he would only be all the more awkward sitting there in the dark, bound by cinema etiquette. The silence would only give him more time to dwell on the things he hadn’t voiced. 

Or the guilty tingling in his ports.

“Tour: has one more stop,” Soundwave said.

***

The gardens had begun as a small patch of crystals, brought in by a Praxian neutral who’d cultivated them in exile.

The mech had petitioned that a space be marked off for the purposes of future gardening, and Soundwave had readily agreed—on the condition that the room would be a communal project, open to anyone who wished to contribute. 

The idea had been more popular than he’d anticipated, and within months the garden had expanded with a variety of plants and crystals—traded at the port, and imported from Cybertron—until it had become far more than one mech’s simple project. Rough paths had appeared between the glittering crystals and creeping foliage. Enough volunteers had emerged for a maintenance schedule to be implemented. And sections had been cordoned off on most of the upper tiers for planned development, though Soundwave imagined that the original patch would remain as it was.

Krok seemed to be enjoying himself, taking the lead as they wandered along the main path. Soundwave took the time to admire the set of his shoulders, optics dropping occasionally to the sturdy angles of his waist. There weren’t too many mecha in the garden at this hour; most of them were refueling, or spending time in the recreation rooms. It meant that things were quieter than usual, leaving him free to focus on the soft weight of Krok’s thoughts pressing in on him.

Krok stopped in the middle of asking Soundwave about some of the stranger additions to the garden to glance at a small statue, half-hidden in the wiry bushes. 

“What’s this?” he asked instead. 

“Depiction: Earth creature. Known as an ‘Elephant’.” 

“Huh. How’d it get here?” 

“Soundwave: acquired statue on Earth”. The humans had seemed alarmed when he’d lifted it up off its stand, but no one had cared to question him. 

“What, really?”

“...Yes.”

Soundwave shifted with the absurd urge to defend the trinket. It wasn’t as though it were alive, merely aesthetic.

“Elephants: Admirable,” he said. “Possess long memories. Sense of community.” They had steady, calm minds, with no need for malice or duplicity. And they were never alone. 

Krok laughed, but it wasn’t a mean sound. His optics were warm, and they pinned Soundwave in place like a bolt through the spark.

“You are definitely not what I expected,” he said. “I think you probably get that a lot though, now that it’s all over.” 

Soundwave didn’t know how Krok had come to that conclusion. Based on the scarce amount of talking he’d managed and his inability to shake the old comfort of stilted speech he wouldn’t have blamed Krok for thinking him exactly as his reputation stated—a cold, stiff automaton. 

He was struck once more by the realization that he was missing his chance. Now would be the time to return the compliment, and ask if Krok didn’t feel like getting to know him a little better. Surely, he could manage that.

Just as he was gearing up to speak, however, Soundwave was distracted by a flash of metal, and the rustling of a nearby tree as Laserbeak settled among its branches. Unlike Buzzsaw, who flitted around corners surreptitiously, she wasn’t making a monumental effort to hide.

“Er, was that…?” 

“Cassettes: spying on us,” Soundwave admitted. 

Rather than look alarmed—as most mech did when garnering the attention of Soundwave’s satellites—Krok snorted.

“I mean, I’m not saying that I hvad to bribe my crew with new dart guns to keep them from tagging along, but I’m also not saying that I _didn’t_ do that,” Krok said. He glanced up at where Laserbeak was perched, regarding the both of them with a mischievous look. “You can’t just ask them to leave?”

He could, but he doubted they would listen. He got the sense that this was more fun than they’d had in a long time. 

“Cassettes: own mechanisms,” Soundwave said. “Old ranks: intended to facilitate wartime operations. Ensure successful surveillance strategy. Not: to resolve interpersonal matters.”

It didn’t help that Laserbeak and Buzzsaw had practically mentored him alongside Ravage. They had no qualms about testing and teasing him relentlessly. 

Krok nodded thoughtfully. He crossed his arms, looking out the wide observation window that lay to their right. Silence reigned, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“I respect what you’re doing here,” Krok said after a while. “It’s good”. 

Soundwave sensed a ‘but’ coming. 

“A lot of ‘Cons ended up feeling disposable as the war dragged on,” Krok said instead. _Being disposable_ hung in the air—unsaid, but acknowledged. “A lot of them felt abandoned afterwards.” 

Soundwave remained silent. Excuses were irrelevant. He doubted Krok would appreciate them.

“It’s good that they have a place to go,” he finished.

“Sanctuary Station: will be better,” Soundwave promised. It had to be.

Krok nodded again. 

“You know? I believe that.” He looked back to Soundwave. “Still don’t know why you’re so set on _us_ staying, though. I can see that you’re trying to build something here; you don’t need us getting underfoot. Ask anyone still alive; we tend to bring our problems along with us.”

Krok said it in the way of someone who didn’t quite believe what he was peddling—the dry acceptance of someone used to a hostile reception. He was also severely underplaying his own skills. Soundwave had seen how well he directed his crew; Krok would be an asset to any project.

“Scavengers: as deserving of a home as anyone else.”

“I appreciate that,” said Krok. “But see, my unit and I already _have_ a home. With each other, on the W.A.P. We don’t need anything else”. Blunt, but honest. Krok wasn’t trying to insult him, merely outlining the situation as he saw it. He’d begun tapping at the railing, just as he had on the observation deck—a nervous habit?

“Convincing Scavengers to stay: secondary objective,” Soundwave admitted, before his nerves could catch up with his mouth. “Primary objective: spend time with Krok.”

Krok paused his tapping. 

“Hah, good one. But no, really.”

Soundwave stayed silent. 

“What, really?” Krok asked. Confusion billowed from him in purple blooms. “I mean, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not all that interesting. There are better mecha to spend your offshift with.”

“Soundwave: disagrees”. 

Krok shook his head.

“You’re _Soundwave_. I’m pretty sure you’ve got your pick of company. Why would you...even...” he trailed off.

The silence stretched. 

“Is this _actually_ a date?” Soundwave didn’t know whether to be reassured that the question had only come out a _little_ strangled. 

Soundwave looked away, fixing his gaze on a very interesting alien fern. The part of his processor not closing off in anticipation of a rejection noted that it was Camien.

“I mean, Crankcase said—but I didn’t believe him. Why would you even— Me?”

It was the first time Soundwave had seen Krok at a loss. He hesitated. What to say? That his mind was a soothing balm against the ache of the everyday? That he needed someone to anchor him? That he wanted nothing more than for Krok to tie him up and reduce his processor to a blank slate? 

Certainly not the last one. In the end, he simply settled for—

“Krok: compelling.”

“...Huh.” 

“Krok: not obligated to remain. Soundwave: prefers willing company”. They were far enough away from the nearest mecha that the risk of being overheard was minimal—apart from Laserbeak, who never missed anything. And yet habit had him lower his voice. 

Krok nodded slowly. 

“Sure.” 

“Refusal: will not impact stay on Sanctuary Station”. He felt the need to impress that there would be no fallout— none of the power plays or mind games that were all too common.

Krok stood scrutinizing him, and Soundwave tried not to draw into himself. 

“Okay. A date.” 

A mixture of triumph, but mostly relief, washed over him. Off to the side, he could see Laserbeak almost vibrating from laughter, causing the tinfoil light leaves on the tree to shake. 

“Where to next?”

“Krok: has preference for venue?” Soundwave did, but he wanted Krok to choose.

Krok mulled it over for a moment. 

“Well, I’m not an expert,” he said. “But it seems like we could take this somewhere more private.” 

Behind the glass of his chestplate, Soundwave’s spark spun victory laps.

A new alert hovered in the corner of his HUD—a message from Laserbeak marked priority.

[🎊🔌]

Soundwave promptly set his comm to do not disturb. The tree shook harder. 

“Soundwave: has acquired Knights of Elonia documentary," he suggested. "Details: battle between dire wraiths and space knights over planet”.

It was possible that he had asked Buzzsaw to conduct some minor surveillance in order to determine Krok’s favourite genres. He had no regrets, however, as Krok’s optics lit up.

“Guess you’d better lead the way”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good stuff soon 👀


End file.
